


One Shot, and We Blow up the Death Star

by sharkie



Series: The Broad Walls [2]
Category: Babylon (TV)
Genre: Asexual Character, Backstory, Friendship, Gen, Pre-Canon, Ripped From the Headlines
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-15
Updated: 2015-02-15
Packaged: 2018-03-12 04:59:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3344468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sharkie/pseuds/sharkie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"I don't do this for fun. I'm the last line of defence, the fucking Night's Watch."</i>
</p><p>Or: how Finn ended up working at the Met.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Shot, and We Blow up the Death Star

**Author's Note:**

> My attempt to graft random pieces of information, headcanons, and ironic echoes into a barely cohesive backstory. Aims to answer my own questions regarding Finn, such as "why is his approach to PR defensive as a default?" and "why do Richard and Charles trust him so much?" and "how come I don't want to yell at him _that_ loudly?"
> 
> Features: canon-typical unrealism, and a young Finn being idealistic and badass, because I like making myself sad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For readers who watched _Babylon_ on SundanceTV: in the pilot, Dennis Trafford is mentioned in passing as the Head of Communications whom Liz succeeded. According to Mia, he and Finn "came up the ranks together, until [Finn] hit the arse ceiling".

Finn hates his job with same burning passion as those who love theirs. His stress dreams revolve around waking up the next morning. He's developed a chain-smoking habit just to escape the office, for fuck's sake. 

Law seemed to be a natural fit. He has an excellent memory; he can bullshit wildly on the spot; he's capable of understanding complex concepts and connecting them like magnets. Communications was, too: he reads others like they're children's books, writes and speaks well, and enjoys the process of dealing with people, if not the actual human contact. 

Litigation PR was the logical extension of his talents. What was decidedly illogical was joining the in-house team of one of London's largest news networks. His role is like being bodyguard to a mutant leopard seal who has four hands, opposable thumbs, and two AK-47's. Every day, he witnesses the worst humanity is capable of - then he covers it in glitter and hollow apologies, and regurgitates it back into the soulless press machine. 

Entering civil service did occur to Finn, multiple times, but it brought to mind images of  _1984,_ as in Finn-Kirkwood-loves-Big-Brother. There are occasional openings at the Met's communications department, but its current Head Commissioner is a racist bully with insider ties to the mainstream media, _especially_ this company. So Finn stays, and he seethes, and he's sorry. 

* * *

Finn's house is too big for him, sometimes bordering on lonely. He thinks he'd like to have kids - or  _a_ kid, the world being overpopulated enough as is - but he also thinks that's impossible, considering everything else about him, such as his solitary nature, his asexuality, and his general standoffishness. He's never been anywhere near romantic love or whatever it is they call it, so he doesn't know how he feels about it. Other than that, he knows who he is, and he knows who the rest are, so fuck them. (Not literally.) (Definitely not literally.) 

Previous experiences have taught him how to preemptively protect himself from unpleasant situations. He's careful not to overdo it, but Sarah is an excuse to leave casual social gatherings early, to not answer his phone, to maintain his default irritability. She does wonders for his networking, too. Interestingly, the more he acts like he hates her, the more his male colleagues warm to him. That's fucked up. 

Nobody seems to suspect that she isn't real. There's no stock photo printed out and sitting framed on Finn's desk, no ring on his finger, no fake profile linked to his on any social media. People truly are just self-absorbed bastards until it comes to not understanding something which isn't any of their business. 

A group of colleagues stop by his desk towards the end of the day, and invite him out for drinks. 

"I can't," Finn lies, feigning disappointment, "Sarah's mother is sick. You know how it goes."

They all nod, and it's a damn good thing they know, because he sure doesn't. 

* * *

The final straw is the phone hacking. 

Caroline Carey and her tabloid-bottom-feeder ilk are one thing. He's on greeting terms with their gaggle, although he always feels like he needs to call lawyers of his own after each 'hello'. But this? Finn is unable to ignore this. 

There were rumours when he first joined. Back then, it was about outside parties being paid for dirt on B-List celebrities and convicted criminals, who aren't the sort of people Finn cares much for. Now it's the journalists themselves targeting children and veterans and murdered police officers who were investigating corruption. 

And it's amazing how quickly the culture of the place has shifted. Within days of investigations reopening, they've gone from denying to justifying their actions. They don't even pretend to be ashamed. It makes him physically ill, though not enough to take a sick day. 

"Finn, figure out how to spin against the Met," his boss decides. "We have a few men high on the inside, but they're on the outs. The slate's about to be wiped clean, and the new lads on top need to learn not to fuck with the press." 

"Right," Finn says, looking as conflicted as he feels. "The angle is, they're attempting to censor legitimate press practices, senior officers used legal loopholes to work alongside us in the past, and they're wasting valuable time with these inquiries." 

"Good man. Get on it." 

"This isn't a viable long-term strategy." Several of Finn's coworkers swivel their heads in sync to gape at him. "I mean, fuck the pigs, but how can we keep steering this?" Silence is the only response he gets. "We may control a large portion of industry opinion, but how long can we cast someone else as the villains here?" 

"Listen, we're a sinking ship on fire, and we're gonna ram them. We're taking the cops down with us. In the aftermath, they won't have much time to skewer our credibility further when they're too busy salvaging theirs." 

"Banzai," Finn concurs sarcastically. He starts to walk away, but his boss grabs him by the arm, and whispers:

"When you're done with that, help us stir on the girl." 

Finn's jaw almost drops. It's a case fresh on people's minds; her family is still traumatised and in mourning. Word is they're planning to pursue a claim against his employers for damages. He can see where his boss expects him to go with this: redirect attention to the failings of the legal system, assert that their journalists' misconduct had no effect on the widely-publicised trial, and hope that the following renewed nightmare will pressure the family into dropping it.  

"Don't give me that moralistic bullshit again," his boss adds, when Finn begins to object. "Think of how this looks. They're saying our journalists tampered with crucial evidence." 

"I'm going to assume that's true." 

"Possibly." His boss winks at him and claps him on the back, as if it's a fucking game. "But they don't know that." 

Finn is indispensable, yet unimportant. His obvious apprehension isn't even viewed as a minor threat, because what can he do about it? Go to the police, and be branded a whistleblower for the rest of his career?

Actually, that sounds like a plan. 

* * *

The Met's Deputy and Assistant Commissioners are overseeing multiple investigations into Finn's employers. They've been on a publicity warpath regarding the hackings, issuing apologies and condemnations left and right, allegedly without the Head Commissioner's approval. It's admirable. It needs to stop. 

So the next time one of the police's random PR lackeys calls the office, Finn jots down the guy's name, Googles him, then contacts him after-hours, claiming to have information related to the scandals. Dennis Trafford is understandably wary, but he agrees to meet in person. 

Finn lays out his company's PR strategy in-depth, and details how it ties into the court proceedings and ongoing police operations. He concludes by mentioning that he wants to volunteer to be the Met's embedded informant. 

"This is way above my station. I only joined last month," Trafford protests.

"Then think of how good you'll look if you take the initiative." Trafford still seems unconvinced, but his face falters when Finn adds, "In a few months, people will be jumping off the top of your department. Don't you want to position yourself to climb the ladder?" 

"I can't get you the Commissioner."

"I don't want him, anyway. He's in on this." 

"That's a serious accusation."

"Which I'm willing to back up. Besides, I'm sure the Deputy Commissioner already knows." Trafford appears offended at this suggestion. Finn leans in and says, with just a hint of smugness, "Government institutions are always going to lie. What matters is _why_ they do it - and this reason is wrong." 

* * *

Finn doesn't care how, but Trafford comes through. Two days later, Finn meets with the Deputy Commissioner, Richard Miller. Assistant Commissioner Charles Inglis is present as well. Both men watch Finn like anal retentive hawks from the moment he enters the room, which Finn finds both terrifying and impressive. 

"I don't see why you're here," Miller says, brow furrowed. "The situation is under control. Have you watched the news lately? As in, on channels not owned by your company?" 

"Every night," Finn replies. "What you're doing is commendable."

Inglis rolls his eyes and murmurs, "Well, so glad you approve." 

"It's commendable, but it's bullshit." Both senior officers' heads snap upright, and they stare at Finn with more or less the same level of hostility. "The media runs on compelling narratives, and that means they present everything in terms of good and evil. If my employers are evil, then at the moment, you're not good. You can whine about them and bang your tiny fists on their chest all you want, but you're still the comical minion they keep kicking down the stairs." Miller and Inglis raise their eyebrows simultaneously. "The police force, not you, personally. Sir." 

"We're  _handling_ it," Miller insists. 

"Your priority should be damage control instead of heroism," Finn advises. "Flexing your muscles in front of the cameras puts unnecessary attention on your organisation and your own reputation. Ever heard of character being what you are in the dark? Keep it dark. The mob's already round the corner with torches."

"I'm sure you'd know all about that, since you work for the journos," Miller retorts. 

"This is being buried now, but it'll come out again. That's a sure thing. Aside from your investigations, other publications are sniffing around like bloodhounds with a nose for paper trails." Miller lifts his head slightly, watches Finn with cold, scrutinizing eyes. "Heads will roll: CEO's, politicians, the Queen's bloody chambermaid, anyone can go down. And your Commissioner is third, fourth on the list at the very least. Stories this big are the politico-media equivalent of a bullet ricocheting in a metal room - the Met is a whole wall - "

The Deputy Commissioner interrupts him, "Mr. Kirkwood, I'm playing fucking Whack-A-Mole with these reporters. I get your point, but there's a damn satisfying sound whenever I nail them, and I'm a generous man. I want everyone to hear it."

"We're building up the defences before a battering ram is taken to them," Inglis contributes. 

" _That's_ our idea of damage control," Miller affirms. "It's how we've survived so far."

Finn is starting to fidget in frustration. "But imagine the boom if you let those moles pop up, then hammer them all in one fell swoop."

Inglis interjects, his tone mildly disgusted, "You're telling us we should hold off making arrests until it's, what, _opportune?"_

"Exactly. No one innocent will get hurt if you put a lid on this and let it simmer for the next major allegation." 

"So hide in a bunker and pretend everything's okay, while the Russians advance? That's what you fuckers are doing," Miller snaps.

"People don't research, and they make shoddy associations. They're going to think you were having them on, regardless of how far removed you and your investigations are from the corrupt cops. My company's market share may be large, but you also have the rest of the press to contend with. Should the public trust the police force even less than usual, new Commissioner or not, the media will throw you to the dogs - and you won't be able to see justice done." 

"You don't know that," Inglis counters.

"I do. Officially, it's my job to ensure that happens." 

Miller leans in closer. "Give me the worst case scenario." 

"A short, painful tenure as Commissioner. Best case? You wouldn't have adequate support from City Hall to decapitate this wounded dragon like it deserves, and it'll heal, then return and eat a village." Miller and Inglis exchange contemplative glances before Miller nods for Finn to continue. "When this explodes in a couple of months, you need the public to be  _shocked_ , not desensitized by overexposure to media corruption like it's a fucking bombing in Yemen or a peanut-sniffing dog." 

"'When'," Miller repeats flatly. 

"Who's to say if a disgruntled employee will undergo a crisis of conscience and make a few calls to competitors?" Finn pauses for dramatic emphasis, then adds in a low voice, "Take your first step on the right foot. You don't want to be the Commissioner who caves to the press."

Inglis begins to protest, but Miller examines Finn, eyes narrowed, and says, "Alright, they planted weevils in our knickers drawer, so we'll put a wolverine in theirs. What do you want?"

"Nothing, sir," Finn claims. That's the clincher, and they all know it. "Just trying to do the right thing." 

* * *

By day, Finn keeps playing the role of unhappily-married litigation specialist. By night, he researches the Met and its infrastructure, takes detailed notes on recent incidents, memorises relevant statistics so thoroughly that he can recite them off the top of his head. He tips Miller and Inglis off about his employer's dealings, and they give him harmless stories in return, which he leaks to competing publications to strengthen his contacts. Within weeks, he's established himself as a reliable communication channel for the police. 

He doesn't dream anymore. He quits smoking, cold-turkey. 

"If they find out, they could murder you for this, you know," Inglis tells him over the phone. "A house in the country is perfect for 'accidents'." 

"I'd die laughing." 

"And here I thought the _journalists_ were supposed to be the ballsy ones."

Finn shrugs, unwraps another strip of nicotine gum, and pops it into his mouth. 

* * *

Months later, new allegations come to light, and he blows the whistle on perfect cue. The company's competitors are all too happy to pounce on the collapsing giant. Two publications shut down. Investigations gain momentum, and mass arrests are made. Scotland Yard's overall integrity escapes unscathed during the resulting fallout, but there are several higher-up resignations, including the Head Commissioner. 

Finn quits his job, too. Soon, he gets a call from Dennis Trafford, who explains that the newly-appointed Commissioner Miller is reorganising their communications department, and has been asking after him. 

"We have to change and stay the same," Richard says at his interview. 

Finn cracks a small smile. "I can work with that." 


End file.
